Interrupted Visit
by ObookNorth
Summary: Mycroft Holmes Visits 221B Baker Street and is treated to a scene of domestic bliss.  Fluff.  Set in the world of Three Patch Problem  M , but it's not necessary to read that to understand this.  Established relationship.


221B Baker Street is a ramshackle dump of an establishment, and I seldom enter it and go up the creaking steps without cringing in distaste. If Mummy could see him now she'd probably be horrified, but then that really is nothing very new. Growing up, Sherlock was the enigma of the family, the first at everything, the sort of budding genius that glows as he plays a fancy tune on the violin at age 7 and gets told by his elders that he is going places, but then breaks down underneath the pressure of a complex combination of intelligence, pressure to conform (when there isn't a conforming bone in his body), and the angry suppression of the gentler emotions. In the end, I was the successful one. I wore my suits, got all my A levels, did not shirk in University, and studiously, deliberately, did everything in my power to avoid the boredom that was eventually Sherlock's downfall.

He was a complete mess after University, a queer sort of man-child that had been left in the play-pen of his Brain (he always said that word capitalized) until the wood rotted and fell apart. He was free to roam, to explore, but he didn't. He lived like a recluse, on the verge on madness, and the only thing that prevented him from being sent to a rehabilitation facility for several years was a combination of Mummy's insistence that such things simply 'are not done' to family and my generous contributions to his means of living.

Frankly, it had been startling to me when he started cleaning up, but it soon became clear when I discovered his acquaintance with the DI Lestrade, who informed anyone who questioned his association with Sherlock Holmes that my younger brother was "A Great Man" and that he would be more than willing to allow him to help him occasionally on cases if he resolved to stay clear of the drugs. Apparently, Sherlock's powerful brain, which had always be particularly useful at detective work (It seems so morbid to me; all the dead bodies involved) had finally found a patron. And, after five years, a little scolding on my part, and some association with a woman named Hudson who admittedly has a bigger heart than Mummy ever did, Sherlock was ready to move out of his squalid little hell hole of a one room flat into Mrs. Hudson's. I suppose it was coincidence that he met John Watson in the process, though sometimes I entertain the notion of fate in regards to him. It only took a five minute meeting with the army-doctor before they got a flat together, and it was only one day before they began solving crimes together with John Watson wantonly shooting people to keep my little brother from destroying himself.

Today, technically, is a pleasure visit, though with our brotherly feud such visits are seldom a pleasure. I hope for a Saturday Afternoon Cup of Tea and a brief interview with my brother so I have something to tell Mummy on my next visit; my powers of observation are such that even if he is intransigent I should be able to glean something about his life from the state of his flat. I hear gentle strains of violin music coming from the upstairs, and brace myself for horrid screeching as Sherlock recognizes my footfall on the stairs and his mood shifts. Surprisingly, today, that change does not come.

As I cracked the door open, quietly, I see Sherlock standing in front of the mirror, playing his violin. I will admit to being quite jealous of Sherlock's appearance; he did get all the looks in the family with his high cheekbones and the shock of curls that can be quite elegant if managed properly. It seems on first glance that Sherlock is immodestly taking note of his physical attributes as he plays his instrument, but a Holmes such as myself notices much more than that. Behind Sherlock, on the couch, a certain Army Doctor is reading the newspaper in the sunlight, occasionally looking up at my brother as he plays, occasionally nodding his head down to his chest, dozing. He is probably tired from a late night solving crimes and a strenuous week working at the hospital. Sherlock is watching him in the mirror, not too subtly I'm afraid, but it doesn't much matter to the Doctor because he isn't conscious enough to see, and if he did he would probably just smile in acknowledgement.

They make quite a pair, the two of them. Sherlock with his wanton, self-destructive habits that he constantly claims are for the benefit of his intellect, and John Watson with his moderate restraint, constantly finding my brother at the edge of a precipice and calmly leading him back to tea, to strong arms, to something very close to gentleness.

I find I can hardly recognize my brother, but I cannot pin down the reason why until the doctor shakes himself awake and looks at my brother, really looks as though in his dozing he has stumbled upon an exquisite dream. Sherlock sighs almost imperceptivity, and abandoning his form and technique, leans into the music as he plays, swaying slightly, closing his eyes, and basking in John's attention the way the doctor is basking in the afternoon sun.

I consider this turn of events silently. Sherlock has stated to me before that he is obsessed with John Watson, and the way he spoke to me made it seemed as though his obsession was that of a needy child with a rather rubbed, worn blanket. But this quiet acknowledgement of something beyond obsession; both in his attention to John and in the way he ignores my presence (though normally he would leap at any reason to sneer at me and to try to chase me away from his flat) stirs me.

If John were to notice me, he would rouse himself and out of customary politeness offer me the tea I had been expecting, but living with my brother is enough to make even the most exceptional of men need an afternoon nap on occasion, so I start to back away from the door. Before I turn to leave, however, my brother turns slightly, and gives me a smirk in the mirror. It is our childish feud again, and the smirk speaks volumes, saying, look at me, dear brother, I have something insurmountably precious and you do not.

For once in my life I agree, wholeheartedly.

I ignore the car outside. I will find it again later. Right now, what is important is in the streets of London. I consider love vaguely, but I suppose I have sacrificed that particular goddess too long ago to that of power and control. If I fight this battle with my brother, I will undoubtedly lose. But perhaps for now I will find myself in the throng of the people in the city, and revisit my humanity which I am sure is present somewhere between the rhythm of the city and the sun that for now shines especially brightly on Baker Street.


End file.
